


Selfishly Selfless

by onemoremiracle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, post reichenbach fall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-05 18:10:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onemoremiracle/pseuds/onemoremiracle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's trying to cope, he really is. With the help of therapy, he's to a point where he can function again, until something happens that really throws him for a loop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published work, so any and all criticism/feedback is more than welcome. It's 1:00 AM and the only person to edit this right now is me, so please forgive errors and let me know what needs to be fixed. There is certainly more to come with this story, and I will try to update regularly. I'll probably have the next chapter up tomorrow afternoon. Thanks!

     “Sherlock, I… I know you’re not here, but sometimes I wonder if you are still out there, floating about somewhere in the universe. Listening. It’s damn near impossible to imagine a world without the great Sherlock Holmes; life doesn’t seem to function properly. I bought a coffee this morning and realized that I ordered what you usually have out of habit. I can’t drink it. It only reminds me of you.

     It’s the small things like this that hurt the most now that you’re gone. I popped into Tesco’s the other day and saw your shampoo. I think of you every time I hail a taxi. I’m torn between staying at Baker Street or moving out because it hurts to live there without you but I think it would hurt more to leave the last remnant of what we had together behind. The flat is oddly tidy- I don’t think the refrigerator has been so clean in the whole time we’ve lived there. If you were here right now I know you would be mocking me for my sentimentality, and for once in my life I wish you would do that. Could do that.

     I suppose I look a bit mad sitting here in the park with a full coffee, talking to myself and crying like an infant. My therapist calls this a coping mechanism, says it’ll help if I talk about my feelings more often. She told me to confide in my family and friends about all this, not the birds in the park, but all of them are tired of hearing me talk about you. None of them listen as well as you did, either, letting me go on and on for ages whereas you would have told me to shut up and have a cup of tea. Perhaps you were right; love is a weakness. But that’s what all this boils down to. I love you. The years we traipsed about London together were the happiest I’ve ever known.”

     John glances around the park. For the majority of the people it's just another normal day in London- mothers gossiping amongst themselves while watching their children play about, shops teeming with locals and tourists, and businessmen dashing about the streets with their briefcases- but not for John. This day is anything but ordinary. 

     Today is the one year anniversary of the death of his best friend.

     He musters up enough energy to leave the park bench, scrubbing his face as he tries to hide the evidence of his mid-morning breakdown. Getting about halfway down the walking path, John realizes that he's still holding the coffee in his hands. He meant it when he said he won't drink it (he never could fathom how Sherlock stomached the taste of black coffee) and starts to make his way towards the waste bin before he has a better idea. Ten steps in the opposite direction takes him back to the park bench where he gently sets the cup down with shaking hands.

     "Goodbye, Sherlock." whispers John, though it holds no finality. He knows he'll be back to this spot in the next day or two, just to sit down and have a quiet, neutral place to think that's not teeming with reminders of the source of his heartache. _Maybe I'll bring some breadcrumbs for the birds,_ he thinks. Lately they're the only companions he has, excluding Mrs. Hudson, of course. Even Mycroft and Lestrade are too busy these days to spare a moment for John. He had tried to continue helping Lestrade out down at the yard, but to no one's surprise he ended up being in the way more often than not. What was he trying to achieve by doing that, anyway? Was he trying to remind himself that Sherlock's place in the world could never be filled? Was it some subconscious desire to find a second source of pain to dull the constant ache in his chest? Maybe he should find a hobby. He mentally makes a note to research macrame when he gets home.

     Out of the corner of his eye a tuft of curly black hair catches his attention, but at the exact moment he turns his head it disappears behind a thick tree trunk. At first John shrugs it off- _probably just some kid running around the green,_ he thinks. He keeps walking, but the longer he thinks about it, the longer that image clings to the front of his brain, the clearer the picture becomes- dark, curly hair; a blue scarf hung loosely around a pale, slender neck; a black coat rustling in the breeze. John shakes his head hard. He thought he was past all of this. His last hallucination was months ago (seeing bits of Sherlock in every dark overcoat on a tall, pale man doesn't count despite what his therapist says). Given the occasion, though, he probably shouldn't be so hard on himself. Regardless, John alters his path from one that would take him to 221B to instead pay a visit to his therapist's office. She'd help him get through this trying day and remain of sound mind and body.

     Hopefully.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2- sorry it took so long. More to come in the next few days. Feedback is welcomed and appreciated. Thanks!

     "Okay John, tell me exactly what you saw," says Dr. Rork.

     "Sherlock."

     "Perhaps you could be a little more descriptive."

     "Sherlock. Everywhere." John's anger is getting the better of him. Dr. Rork doesn't deserve most of what he's dishing out (although she has been more a source of frustration than help for the past year), but John mostly just has an irrational hatred for all things dealing with psychology. He's not paying someone to poke around in his brain and hit sore nerves- he's seeking the help and advice of someone supposedly smarter than him. And just how exactly are these sessions helpful? She never gives him a direct answer; therapists must think it's clever to try and prod the patient into answering his own question, but for John it's just infuriating and makes his jaw clench in frustration.

     John feels his fists tightening beside his legs and his lips thinning out in irritation but eventually tells the therapist about his episode in the park in as few words as possible. After a long pause, something inside of him breaks down a little bit- _she really is the only one left to listen to me_ , he thinks- and he tells the whole truth, which he's been harboring since their very first therapy session, and lets himself feel weak and vulnerable just this once.

     "For the first few days after Sh-... Sherl-... _he_ died, it didn't seem real. I sat around the flat staring at the door for hours on end, because it seemed like he was going to walk in the door at any minute, felt like he had just stayed late at Bart's working on a case. If the phone rang at all I didn't hear it, though I'm sure no one bothered to call- the situation was unbelievable to everyone. Once our land lady came in through the door and my heart almost leaped out of my chest with joy before I realized he wasn't coming back. That was when it really hit me that he was gone. I still found myself doing silly little things like making enough tea for two, though, and my eyes started playing tricks on me. Every blue scarf, every black coat, and every pair of blue eyes was him. It happened quite a lot during those first few months, but after that the reminders barely registered in my conscious mind. And then it happened again this morning like the first time all over again. Except it was so real- it was the most vivid and realistic hallucination I've ever had." John feels a little bit lighter after confessing this, but now his throat is uncomfortably tight.

     "Given the significance of the day, I'm not surprised to hear that your brain is trying to express your innermost thoughts and feelings. The best way to counter this is a firm reminder of what is real and what is not. I've written a mantra of sorts, something you need to memorize and recite to yourself as needed when your imagination decides to project into reality." Dr. Rork hands John a piece of paper with little scribbles on it, but he can still read it; he's a doctor, after all.

     "Sherlock is not here. What I am seeing is not real. It is just my imagination. He has moved on, and so shall I."  
     John leaves the office that day feeling more emotionally drained than usual and in desperate need of a cup of tea.

 

*~*~*

 

     The clock outside chimes twelve times. Through the dark windows John can see the streetlights glow dimly in the drizzling rain and the headlamps of taxis searching for people to escort home. He can't sleep, but then again he can't remember the last time he's gotten a good night's rest. Weather like this always gives his joints trouble, but tonight he thinks it's because he's been curled up in Sherlock's armchair for several hours. He glances around the room; not much has changed in the past year. He hasn't moved any of the furniture or any of Sherlock's belongings. He can't even bring himself to set foot into Sherlock's room (although he doubts that there is much in there since the majority of his belongings hold residence in the living room). The only thing that has noticeably changed is the kitchen, but even then Mrs. Hudson is owed most of the credit for that. Just as he stars to consider redecorating a knock at the door startles him out of his reverie.

     At first he assumes it's Mrs. Hudson, but then a quick glance at the clock reminds him of the late hour. He quietly rises from the chair and moves over to the desk, reaching into the drawer for his gun. He waits. He's almost convinced he imagined the knocking when he hears another soft rap on the door.

     His better judgment is telling him not to open the door, but what other course of action can he take? Shoot blindly through the door? No, he might hurt an innocent person. He sees no possible way to alert the police without the stranger hearing him; speaking on the phone would let the person know he was in fact home and reveal his approximate location in the apartment.

     He creeps closer, left hand holding the gun behind his back, finger poised on the trigger, while his right hand reaches slowly for the door knob. When the cold brass touches his fingers he pauses. He stands still and listens, hearing breathing accompanying his own from the other side of the door. Adrenaline rushing through his veins, he yanks the door open.

     _Pale skin. Blue eyes. Curly black hair. Tall. Dark coat. Blue scarf._

     "Hello, John."

     The last thing his brain registers is the sound of his gun clattering to the floor before everything fades to black.

 

*~*~*

 

     John regains consciousness slowly, but everything has a blurry quality. He mentally checks his body for bumps and bruises, discovering a very sore head when he tries to observe his surroundings. _How did I wind up on the floor?_ he thinks, but then it hits him.

     Sherlock.

     He listens to the sounds of the flat closely; the hum of the refrigerator, the drippy kitchen faucet, the rain tapping against the window panes. For a moment he is sure he must have imagined the previous sequence of events, but suddenly a face is hovering above his own and a deep baritone voice is filling his ears.

     "It would probably behoove you to remain still for the time being, considering your current state of disorientation. However out of character it may be, I feel the need to apologize for giving you such a fright, and to be honest I expected much worse than a fainting spell- a solid punch at the minimum. It is reassuring to see that you haven't lost your instincts involving firearms, though I'm afraid it would have been more effective if you had deactivated the safety..."

     John shuts his eyes tightly.

_Sherlock is not here._

     "... the cleanliness of the kitchen, though I do hope you haven't damaged any of my..."

_This is not real._

     "... certainly makes it more difficult to speak to you when you're on the floor..."

_This is just my imagination._

     "... can stop pretending, John, it's obvious that you're awake and..."

_Sherlock has moved on and so shall I._

     "... just put the kettle on so y-"

     "SHUT UP!" John can't think clearly with this maniac rambling on and on. He must have hit his head harder than he thought for the burglar to be concerned about him. Burglar. Not Sherlock. Sherlock was most definitely not sitting in his armchair as if didn't just come back from the dead.

     John gets up gingerly, mindful of his tender head. He looks at the chair that has been empty for over a year. Sure enough, Sherlock was sitting there like he had just gotten back from a short stroll, not doing whatever he has been doing for the past twelve months.

     "You're dead." John's brain needs to kick into gear sometime soon if he wants to solve the problem currently occupying his living room.

     "Yes, that's what you have been led to believe, but actu-" Sherlock starts to speak, but John interrupts him.

     "You're dead. You can't be here. I saw you fall. I went to your funeral. I mourned you, cussed you, missed you; yet here you are, like none of that ever happened. This isn't happening. I guess I've finally snapped under all the emotional stress, because there is no possible way that this can be happening." John starts pacing in an effort to clear his head and gain some control over the situation.

     "John, if you'd just let me explain," says Sherlock, standing.

     "How are you going to explain this, Sherlock? How?! You want to play dead for a year and then think you can just come back and work your charm and make everything go back to normal? Life doesn't work that way!" John has little concern for how loud he's being right now. He doesn't care if he wakes up the whole damn city- everyone should know how furious he is.

     "You think I'm charming?" Sherlock asks, a hint of amusement in his eyes that only fuels John further.

     Sherlock Holmes is a pompous bastard. John cannot be held accountable for the left hook that hits Sherlock square in the jaw.

     Sherlock takes a moment to look shocked, then rubs his jaw gently. John shakes his hand out. He'll probably have a bruise on his knuckles in the morning.

     "I suppose I deserved that," Sherlock murmurs.

     "You're bloody right, you deserved that. Now get the hell out of my house and don't bother me again."

      John takes Sherlock by the elbow and leads him to the door. With a not-so-gentle shove Sherlock is on the other side of the door and John ignores all his protests while he bolts it tight.

     "Please, John," Sherlock says. Some of John's anger melts away because Sherlock actually sounds sincere. _I've never heard him say "please" before,_ John thinks. He's still enraged enough to throw him out, though.

     "Goodnight, Sherlock," John says tersely. "Maybe if you go crying to Mycroft he'll offer you a place to stay."

     John's still upset, but it's only a fraction of his original ire. It's late, he's physically and mentally exhausted, and he just can't deal with Sherlock right now. He knows that this won't be the last he sees of Sherlock, no matter how rude he is right now. _I have a right to be rude_ , he mentally grumbles. He's going to go upstairs, lay in bed, and toss and turn for a few hours before he has to get up for his shift at the hospital tomorrow.

     He rests his forehead against the door and listens to Sherlock's footsteps disappear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow ok I hate me so much for not updating this regularly. My life has been kind of hectic lately and I'm really lazy and writing is haaaard but I'm trying to get better about it. Anyway, I know the plot seems kinda stagnant so far and I promise it's gonna pick up, but I needed to get this chapter out there so I would quit thinking about it.

            A small beam of light slowly makes its way across John's bed. He's been awake for several hours now, laying sprawled across the mattress reviewing the vivid dream he had last night. Parts of it seemed absurd- Sherlock, _alive_ and in his apartment, for one- but other parts had seemed so real- 221B finally filled to the brim with the ego of a man never truly satisfied. The longer he dwells on it, the more the line between his subconscious and reality blurs, giving him an illusion of hope that he really just can't deal with right now. Can't deal with at all, really. Glancing at the clock tells him it's a quarter 'til seven, and he figures that's as good of a time as any to get moving. His shift at the surgery doesn't start until nine, but in the meantime the tea won't make itself.

            John gets up and stretches. His back muscles are unusually sore, and his temples begin to pulse uncomfortably. He must have slept more fitfully than he originally thought; a look back at the sheets suggests he practically ran a marathon in his sleep. _I'll make the bed later,_ John thinks, even though the likelihood of him coming home and crashing on his unmade bed is greater than him taking the time to fix the bed himself. Oh well. It's not like anyone but him is going to see it. A pang of loneliness hits him and couples with the residual feelings from his dream, poking at a place in his heart he refuses to admit exists because he's a grown man and a soldier and will be damned if he can't keep himself together. With a sigh he pads down the stairs and buries his feelings.

            Reaching the kitchen with every intention of starting the tea, John finds himself abruptly stopping. A faint noise from behind the door to his left- the uninhabited bedroom- puts him on high alert. He waits, body frozen, until he hears it again, at which point his heart resumes beating in triple time and his survival skills kick in. _A weapon, I need a weapon._ His brain runs through a mental catalogue of the flat in search of anything that could cause some blunt force trauma. _Toaster oven, volumetric flask, salad tongs..._ He grabs a poker from the fireplace and tiptoes through the kitchen. He takes a steadying breathe, tightens his grip on the poker, and gently rests his hand on the doorknob. It feels like minutes before he silently twists the handle to the point where the door is free to open, and he slowly makes a gap just large enough to be able to sneak a peek inside. No immediate dangers present themselves, so he gathers up a little more courage and opens the door enough to stick his head inside. A quick check behind to the right proves that no one is hiding behind the door, so he allows his shoulders to relax and feels his adrenaline begin to level out.

            He hears the noise that inspired this mission and jerks his head to the left, nearly losing his hold of the poker and what little sanity he had left by the image in front of him. Sherlock- Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes- laying atop the bed that he _used_ to sleep on, located inside the bedroom that _used_ to be his, in the flat that _used_ to belong to him and John. His black curls are tousled perfectly on the pillow, clothes slightly wrinkled, but John is not noticing that at the moment because he can't decide whether or not to be angry or relieved. Last night's dream wasn't a dream at all! He's not as crazy as he thought he was. He wants to ring Sherlock's neck for putting him through all this, but part of him (perhaps a larger part) wants to hug him and tell him to never leave like that again. He does neither, instead walking to return the poker to the fireplace and returning to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Perhaps it's not the most helpful thing to do in this situation, but there's no etiquette book for the return of your previously expired flat-mate. John sits down in a chair at the kitchen table and rubs his eyes, attempting to process these recent events and how he feels about them (and damn his therapist for making him feel the need to analyze his emotions), all the while reveling in a tiny piece of information that possibly even the world's only consulting detective doesn't know.

            Sherlock Holmes snores.

**********

            When the kettle whistles there is a large thump from Sherlock's room. John is seated and pouring the tea when Sherlock enters the room, trying to look graceful despite just waking up.

            "Well, Sherlock, I do believe that you owe me a rather large, detailed explanation." John stirs his tea and watches Sherlock take a seat.

            "As I recall, I attempted to explain it to you last night, only to have you yell at me and lock me out." His long, lean fingers reach out for the cup in front of him and bring it to his lips.

            "Yet here you are."

            "It wasn't my original intention to break into the flat last night. I followed your advice and sought out Mycroft, but he wasn't having any of it. He told me that this was all my fault and I could deal with the consequences as such.  Thankfully I still had my keys to this place. But really John, you're going to have to brush up on your combat skills. While creative, the fire poker would have proven useless if the intruder had a gun."  
            "But how did you-"  
            "Quarter inch to left from where it rested last night, scuffs on the hearth, soot on your left hand." John has a hard time keeping the smile off his face, but it just felt so good to hear him list off his clues, a barrage of information John never thought he'd get to hear again. He gives in a little and grins, shaking his head slightly.

            "You haven't lost your touch, I see. Are you going to get to the part where you tell me why you faked your own death and stayed in hiding for a year or are we just going to beat around the bush all morning?" John asks. He was happy to have Sherlock back, he really was; but as he had learned from living with the man, most things involving Sherlock were never as they seemed.

            "Yes, well..." Sherlock fidgets with his cup, running his thumb along the handle before folding his hands in his lap. "It's a rather long story. And complicated. So I would like to preface it by saying that it was in no way designed to harm you." John can see that he means it; he never looks this uncomfortable unless he's speaking from the heart. He won't even make eye contact with John.

            "I suppose I'll just pick up where I left off- the jump from the building. It was intended to be fatal, or rather give the illusion of fatality to onlookers. Theoretically no one could survive a fall from that height..."

            John listens for as long as he can, but finds himself going into a bit of shock. Instead he focuses on Sherlock. He swallows, John watches. He blinks, John mirrors. He makes a graceful yet abrupt hand motion, and John smiles a bit. Very much alive and well, as far as John can tell. He catches bits and pieces of the goings on of the situation after he had left to check on Mrs. Hudson, and wonders if she heard the racket they made last night. Sherlock begins to wrap up his story, and John fades back into focus.

            "And so a combination of all those factors, plus the help of Molly and a dead Mr. Crane, was enough to satisfy the snipers." Sherlock patiently folds his hands, no doubt knowing there would be questions.

            "Snipers? When did snipers become a part of this!" John can't stop the boyish squeak in his voice.

            "That's the whole reason I had to do this, John. Moriarty had them poised to kill Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and you, only to be called off by my jumping from the roof. Were you not listening the first time?" John lets this sink in for a moment but can feel a bit of resentment build in his chest.

            "You couldn't have told me that over the phone, hm? No, 'Don't worry, John, I'm not actually a suicidal maniac, I'm just going to have a quick fall, you'll rush over looking sad, and then we'll be back on schedule in the morning!'" He grows terse in his anger. "I checked your pulse. I saw them carry your corpse away. Never mind the trauma that would cause me or the therapy it forced me back into, no expense is spared in the name of science!"

            "It had to be real. I couldn't take the risk of losing you." Sherlock speaks softly, but quickly resumes his regular pace. "Or Mrs. Hudson. Or Lestrade, really. He's the only one with enough patience to deal with the idiots in his office. Speaking of which, let's head down to the yard. I caught wind of an especially interesting case the other day and want to get my hands on it." Sherlock stands and adorns his jacket and scarf. _He's like a dog waiting to be taken on his walk_ , John thinks to himself despite his frustration at the man.

            "I do have work today, Sherlock." John glances at the clock. _Still time to make it_. "And I'm not sure I've forgiven you yet."

            "Oh, come on, you can be angry in the cab." Sherlock practically skips out of the living room. They both know John won't put up much resistance; this is their routine. He grabs his phone to shoot a quick text to Sarah saying he's caught a bug and won't be coming in today. Sherlock's already halfway out the door when John pulls a jumper over his head and gulps the last of his tea.

             "The world doesn't revolve around you, you know!" John calls down after him.

            In John's case, that statement isn't one hundred percent true.  


End file.
